


i change shapes just to hide in this place

by teamfreewolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreewolf/pseuds/teamfreewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night you dream of fur sliding along your skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i change shapes just to hide in this place

**Author's Note:**

> Written pre-S2. Unbeta'd.

You may not be a wolf, but you can still feel the thrum of the full moon in your blood. You’ve come to recognize the sensation these past few months; even without the Pack’s twitchiness and your father’s sharpened glare you would know when it is time to let the moon take them for a night. 

The truce demands that you stay far away on full moons, at least until the Argents can be completely sure all the Pack members have complete control over their wolves. You fought that, at first, but Derek agrees wholeheartedly with your father’s decision, and as Alpha, the Pack has no choice but to agree. You could sneak out and join them, his power has no real, physical sway over you the way it does Scott or Jackson, but you won’t. It’s not worth it, yet. You let them have this night to bond and romp and howl and you take the time for your own. 

They train, and so do you. You’ve always been handy with the bow, but now knives and guns are falling into place for you as well. 

You still remember that night vividly. The smell of blood on the wet forest ground. The pressure in your chest as you watched Peter Hale drag your aunt into the shell of a house. Here, alone in your room, you grasp the silver pendant hanging around your neck, pressing the design into your palm sharply, and allow yourself a moment of grief. It’s all you can take these days. The Pack doesn’t like to talk about it, and you understand that. You see the way Derek stills when he catches a glimpse of your necklace; he can’t forgive Kate, you don’t expect him to. Your father refuses to say her name. 

The only person you have talked to, the only one you  _can_  talk to about it, is laying in a hospital bed, unable to respond.

 

—-

You look up from your textbook. Your gaze swings towards the window. You’ve learned to trust your instinct, and you immediately stand and walk towards it, grabbing the precision bow and an arrow from the quiver where they lean against the wall.

Below the overhang beneath your window, right smack dab in the middle of your front lawn, is a wolf. The motion sensor lights haven’t gone off, but there’s enough illumination from the bright moon for you to see. 

The wolf sits and stares intently at you. It’s not Scott’s lithe gray wolf, Derek’s hulking black mass, or Jackson’s tawny form. This wolf’s coat gleams a deep, burnished auburn in the moonlight. 

Your chest constricts. You don’t open the window, but you want to. The bow slips from your hand a fraction, and the motion startles you into breaking the staring contest you’ve been having with the creature sitting ( _waiting_ ) outside. 

When you look up again, only a heartbeat later, the wolf is gone. 

—-

That night you dream of fur sliding along your skin. You can feel the heavy pelt underneath your gripping fingers, against the bare flesh of thighs. There is hot breath on your neck, but it’s not the familiar rhythm of Scott’s, nor are the eyes you’ve only caught brief glimpses of in the darkness.

The familiar yellow is instead a flashing green. 

—-

Lydia’s nurse sends you a small smile as you walk down the hall towards her room. You are here often enough for your face to be familiar to many of the staff on the floor. Slipping quietly into the room, you see a few fresh flowers in the thin glass vase on the bedside table. The huge bouquets and balloons from the first few weeks have all died and deflated and been taken away, but every time Stiles visits he brings a few new blooms to replace the wilting ones in this vase. At first he brought roses, but now a smattering of bright, cheerful gerber daisies bring color to the drab hospital room.

You settle down into your usual chair by her bedside. Her chest rises and falls, steady and slow, loose curls of red hair splayed on the white pillowcase. She looks pale and vulnerable. You hate it. You wish she would open her eyes. 

Pulling out your homework, you start in on Chemistry, talking to her the whole time. You tell her about Scott’s progress, and your Dad’s slowly decreasing paranoia about your time with him, about Mindy Vargos getting suspended for spreading rumors about the identity of the father of Mrs. Ness’ coming baby (namely, that it is  _not_  Mr. Ness). 

You want to tell her about the wolf last night. About your dream. You go to speak but the words catch as you remember the green eyes and red coat and you stop. You look at the scars on her arms. Healed like a human’s, but…

You reach out and slide your hand into hers, threading your fingers together with hers, limp on the blankets. Leaning forward you press a soft kiss into there; your lipgloss leaves a small, shiny residue on the back of her hand. Eyes closed, you cover it with your hand and rest your head on top. 

“Please wake up Lyds. I miss my best friend.”

—-

Scott takes your hand when you arrive at school the next morning, but it feels different. His fingers don’t fit into the spaces as easily, they’re too blunt, too rough. 

“I’m sorry I never made it over yesterday. I was pretty worn out after the full moon.” His voice is low in your ear, earnest. Scott is always so earnest. You give him an affectionate smile.

“It’s alright. I had work to do anyway, and I went to the hospital to sit with Lydia for a while.” 

He squeezes your hand softly. You lean into him. 

“So tell me about the night! Did that training Derek’s been making you do help with the tracking? Did you guys, like, smell anything weird?”

You think maybe the wolf from the other night is from another pack, trying to move in on Beacon Hills’ territory. If there were any new wolves in town, you’re  _sure_  the whole Pack would be on red alert, but Scott shakes his head in response to your query, and seems more relaxed than ever. His full moons are getting easier and easier. 

And then he’s off on a tangent about the night, about some rabid raccoon that tried to attack Jackson or something, and you try to escape from the thoughts churning in your brain.

—-

Stiles smile is wide and goofy as always when you approach him after the final bell. He leans against his locker, awkwardly shuffling and shoving his lacrosse equipment over his shoulder - he’s going to be late to practice, but you have to ask him the questions that have been rattling in your brain all day. 

You know you should ask Scott, really, but he’s been so caught up with Derek and Jackson and training…  Besides, if the matter turns out to require a little research, Stiles is definitely your go-to guy.

“Hey Allison, how’s it?”

He’s warmed up to you in recent months, though you can still sense a little hostility when a date with Scott runs long, or when you call during “Bro-Time”. He knows you visit the hospital as frequently as he does, and you’ve occasionally made the trip together. He replaces her flowers and you hold her hand, and the two of you sit and speak to her. He tells her about his mother.

He’s started spending a good amount of time with Derek after school and on weekends, researching other possible cures and learning all about werewolf politics (because Scott doesn’t understand them and Jackson doesn’t care). For a human, you suspect he knows the most about lyncanthropy of any of the Pack, save Derek. 

“Oh, good, thanks. I, ah, actually have a question for you.” You lean against the locker next to his, mirroring him.

“Shoot.”

“Have you or the Pack found anything yet about Lydia’s condition? Like, at all? I know we’ve ruled out werewolf, but there’s no way she could undergo such a serious attack from an Alpha and not have any, uh, side effects, right?”

He runs a hand along the back of his head, sucking in a breath. The lacrosse stick in his other hand taps a rhythm lightly against the locker.

“No. Nothing yet. I mean, all we have to go on is her wounds, and the hope that Peter’s death would reverse any kind of supernatural effect his attack would have on her, but we can’t know for sure. Derek’s never heard of anybody actually surviving an attack that bad without turning.” He closes his eyes briefly. “If I knew anything, I would tell you, you know that.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.” You hesitate, unsure of whether or not you really want to continue this conversation. “I, just, I had a really weird dream the other night, and I think it might have something to do with her.”

He’s completely at attention now.

“What? What kind of dream?”

You tell him about the wolf in your yard, not mentioning the later dream.

“It felt so totally real. I asked Scott if they ran into anything weird this weekend, thinking it was another werewolf maybe, but he said there was nothing, so maybe I was just seeing things?”

“But why do you think it has to do with Lydia?”

“I don’t know, it just  _felt_  like her. You know? But like I said, I might just be seeing things. I just wanted to know if there was anything to this before I got everyone all worked up.”

His tongue is working overtime on his lips now, and you can tell he’s just dying to Google something. 

“Okay, sure, uh - let me dig around a little? See what I can find? I’ll call you. I gotta go, I’m, oh  _wow,_  I’m really late.” And he’s off, sprinting down the hallway, making as much noise as humanly possible in his hurry. 

—-

Stiles brings you pages and pages of printouts on things like animal spirits, totems, astral projections. He bashfully admits that he told Derek about it, but the Alpha has never heard of anything like this related to werewolves. You find nothing concrete to connect Lydia with the wolf in your yard, and you’ve really started to doubt your own sanity. Maybe it was all just a dream.

Being around werewolves 24/7 can get pretty stressful.

Nobody would blame you if you snapped a little.

Still, something tells you to keep looking, and you want to pursue the ideas Stiles has found, but a week later you receive a text from Scott reading “VAMPIRES in the woods, meeting at Derek’s 2nite” and life gets far too interesting after that.

—-

Beacon Hills is blissfully clear of vampires and vampire  _hunters_  by the next full moon.

—-

You get to Lydia’s room just as the nurse finishes bathing her. The scars are still shining slightly with moisture, and your knees go weak. You hate this. You can feel the tension in your body, toned with running and training and skilled with deadly freakin’ weapons. You are so strong now, and all you want is to give that strength to her. 

In an unthinking move, you slip the silver pendant off your neck and slide it over hers. You adjust the red waves of hair over the chain. The necklace rests on the ugly mint green of the hospital gown, moving slowly up and down on her chest with each breath. 

Aunt Kate did a lot of awful things, but she promised you that you could be powerful. She gave you that necklace, and it reminds you now that you are. You hope it gives Lydia the same thing.

—-

You’re dreaming of blood. Of hospital whites soaked in it. Of thrashing limbs and fingernails scratching against flesh and bedsheets, of fire in your lungs, of delicate skin torn to ribbons.

But then there are lips against yours, and you cannot breathe, and the fire in your lungs doesn’t get any more oxygen and it goes out, and long fingers are soothing the thrashing limbs, which were both yours and not yours, and a soft whine in your ear brings you back from the brink. The lips move down your throat, a nose nuzzles in the hollow, and your hands find thick hair to crush in your fists. 

She raises her head, and her eyes are inhumanly bright, emeralds flashing brilliantly. She’s smiling, and you are smiling, you are so happy to see her, but then her teeth are too long and her face is changing, and you once again feel fur against flesh. You know you should be scared, but it’s  _her_  and you aren’t.

This halfling thing resting on top of you leans down once more, pushing out low growling words from behind incisors,  _“I’m coming. I promise, I’m coming back.”_

She nips at your collarbones and sinks down against you, and the copper hair clenched in your fists falls against your shoulders as your bodies meet -

—-

A howl from outside jars you awake. You run without thought to your window, throwing it open and leaning out, but there is nothing out there in the yard. No wolf, no girl, nothing in between. Only the howling of the Pack in the distance.

Your heart is still beating wildly as you crawl back into bed. Sleep doesn’t come no matter how hard you will it, no matter how much you squeeze your eyes shut and focus on your breathing. You know you’ll have to talk to the Pack about this tomorrow, but for now all you want is to hear those words again. 

_“I’m coming. I promise, I’m coming back.”_

You move again, trying to find another comfortable position, and your hand slides under your pillow; you freeze when it brushes against something cool. Sitting up, you lift up the pillow and see your pendant resting there, gleaming and solid against your sheets.


End file.
